


If It Were Me

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bottom Misha, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Top Jensen, Unresolved Sexual Tension, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why should it be weird?” he says, with a sort of smile. “It’s just sex, isn’t it? There’s no reason not to talk about sex. It’s just a cultural taboo, that’s all.”</p>
<p>Jensen looks back at him, allows his eyes to skim briefly over Misha’s lips, and for a second he feels sure Misha is reading through this, because this is <em>exactly</em> how Jensen plays Dean, and of course Misha will notice, they’ve done it literally <em>hundreds</em> of times, and yet it suddenly seems real in a way that it wasn’t before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Were Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [derryere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryere/gifts).



> Okay, so I’m not at all into RPFs (I think the only one I ever read was derryere’s _RPS DOESN'T GET TO HAVE A TITLE_ , and I read it in quiet desperation after the _Merlin_ series finale, and it was so fluffy and beautiful it sort of fixed me), but these were the headlines today - DEATH in Turkey, DEATH in Syria, DEATH in the oceans, TORTURE in Saudi Arabia, DOOM in Ukraine, DEATH in Israel, DEATH in Palestine, DOOM in Antarctica, CONCENTRATION CAMPS in Germany, FIRE AND DOOM in Indonesia, MISERY in Nepal and Afghanistan and _bloody stay tuned for more_. And so, well, you know what, today I’m writing this thing. Because, really, what the fuck.
> 
> No disrespect intended to the actors. It’s a RPF, but, in a way, we’re never writing about the real people, are we? We don't know the real people. We’re writing about what they choose to share with the world; about fictional characters they choose to create of themselves. It is, in the end, a kind of _Supernatural_ meta. As for Cockles - who knows if it’s real or not. They both seem happy, so whatever you’re doing, guys, keep it up and godspeed.

_There’s nothing wrong with gay sex. It was very popular with the Romans, and they got a lot done._  
David Mitchell, _Peep Show_

 

It’s not late, not at all, but it _feels_ late. Jensen remembers a better time – remembers staying up all night and then going to work the next morning, just like that, without any trouble whatsoever. And now it must be, what, nine, and he’s already wondering, a bit idly, if he _does_ need that chocolate mousse. If it’s an absolute necessity. He still has to drive back, and all.

“God, I'm so tired,” says Misha from his right, and so apparently he’s been following the same train of thought. 

Jensen is not surprised: they often are on the same page. He nods, even though Misha is not looking at him (because somehow, he can always tell when Misha is looking at him: the guy has this quiet focus, like whatever he’s doing, he does it 100% - when he listens to you, you’re the only person alive in the world; and when he’s looking at you, he’s almost burning a hole through the skin of your goddamn face) and stretches.

They are sitting on the outside couch, waiting for Vicky to come back. West was particularly boisterous tonight, so they might be waiting a while.

“You know, I finally got around to reading that book,” Jensen says.

“You read a book? Really?”

“Ha ha.”

Jensen does his _fake annoyed_ face and huffs at Misha, who looks back at him good-naturedly.

“Which book?”

“Your wife’s. The threesome thing.”

“You read it?”

There’s a little something in Misha's voice, and Jensen grins. This is going to be way too easy.

“Yep. Had a question, actually.”

“I'm sure Vic will be able to answer it, whatever it is,” Misha says, and Jensen hums in agreement.

They sit in companionable silence for another two minutes, until Misha says, in a carefully neutral tone, “Unless you wanted to ask me about it?”

“You sure? It can wait.”

“Well, it’s my life too.”

“Ah. I see,” grins Jensen, and Misha immediately tries to fix it.

“That’s not what I meant. We’re not - not all of that is - oh, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

It’s that perfect time of the year - the garden is completely dark and silent, aside from the occasional cricket, or cicada, or whatever the hell they are, and the evening is slowly inching into night, and yet it’s not cold, and it’s still pleasant to do this - to sit outside in a t-shirt and drink cold beers. Jensen relaxes into it, very visibly, the fingers of his right hand closed around his Corona, his other hand behind his head, his gaze upwards (he can see a corner of starry sky beyond the edge of the shades); he wonders, fleetingly, if he’s fooling Misha at all, because the truth is, he’s not relaxed, he’s playing it, and Misha knows his tells by now, has seen him work too long not to.

But, well, tonight he’s lucky; or maybe Misha’s had a beer too many.

“So, anyway,” he says, turning towards Jensen, “what is it that you wanted to ask?”

Hook, line and sinker.

Jensen hesitates, just for show, pretends he’s gathering his thoughts.

“It just seems difficult to pay attention to two people at the same time, that’s all. When I, you know, have sex with someone” Jensen shifts in his seat so his t-shirt rides up, just slightly, sees Misha glance down, carries on, “I can barely focus enough to think about _them_ ,” he adds, knowing Misha will notice the gender-neutral pronoun and feeling like the evilest person that ever lived. 

“I mean, obviously I _do_ focus on them,” he says after a full five seconds, and now he turns as well, so he’s facing Misha, “because I want them to enjoy everything that’s going on, and I also need to feel them - _all_ of them. You know, I like to -” he starts, and then forces himself to blush (and it’s alarming how easy it is to do it - sometimes he feels it should be illegal for actors to walk around and interact with real people). “Maybe I shouldn’t talk about this. Is this weird? It’s weird, isn’t it?”

Misha swallows, shakes his head.

“Why should it be weird?” he says, with a sort of smile. “It’s just sex, isn’t it? There’s no reason not to talk about sex. It’s just a cultural taboo, that’s all.”

Jensen looks back at him, allows his eyes to skim briefly over Misha’s lips, and for a second he feels sure Misha is reading through this, because this is _exactly_ how Jensen plays Dean, and of course Misha will notice, they’ve done it literally _hundreds_ of times, and yet it suddenly seems real in a way that it wasn’t before - isn’t it crazy - as soon as Jensen plays it like something straight out of _Supernatural_ , it becomes more real, more vivid, than their actual real lives. The fucking show. Jensen briefly wonders if he’ll ever be free of Dean Winchester, and then he realizes he doesn’t care. He likes Dean. Let him stay.

“No, you’re right. And I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, anyway - this feeling you have, that you have to touch and lick every inch of someone’s skin - that’s, like, the most important thing for me. I guess I’m orally fixated, or something.”

This was a very cheap shot, and now it’s Misha’s turn to glance at Jensen’s lips, and Jensen knows exactly what’s going through his mind, decides to push it a little bit further.

“It’s different with guys, of course - the skin is less sensitive, or something, and so you have to be a bit rougher - you have to bite down, to leave bruises.”

Misha blinks. His freakishly blue eyes come up to Jensen’s, and there's something in his gaze - something -

“Well, depends on the part of the body, obviously. The shoulder is always a good place to bite. And the nipples, you can go a bit rough there. And also,” Jensen looks away for a second, then back at Misha; he licks his lips, “personally, I like to bite into the inner thigh - nice and sensitive - beautiful part of the body, isn’t it? But if we’re talking dick, well, there is a no teeth rule for something. We live in a civilized society, after all.”

Misha frowns, very slightly, as if he’s trying to keep himself anchored in actual reality, to remember where and who he is, and then downs a big gulp of beer.

“What was your question again?”

His voice is a bit rougher now, almost a Castiel voice, and Jensen grins.

“Well, I’m just saying - I can do all this, you know, focus on the other person - but then I get so much into it - there’s this moment where I almost forget where I am and who I’m with, this moment when I must just just - _have_ , you know?, and I guess the book got me wondering, how would that work with three people? Does everybody lose their minds at the same goddamn moment? Or am I the only one to get crazy and distracted?”

Misha is still valiantly trying to listen and focus on what Jensen is saying, as if they’re discussing a maths problem, something to do with thirty watermelons and a broken tub and not - not whatever it is they’re actually discussing.

“Every time it’s different,” he says, a bit diffidently. “You do get this moment of - of lightheadedness, but it doesn’t matter - it can be very gratifying to - to _witness_ that moment as well. So it generally works out okay.”

He’s still way too relaxed for Jensen’s liking. And why wouldn’t he be? Misha is the one with the life experience, after all, the one who experimented with everything and anyone, if gossip is to be believed, while Jensen is just a regular dude who went to a couple of crazy parties. But still, if Vicky asked _him_ to do this, she must know something he doesn’t. And Jensen is looking forward to discovering what that is. Very much so. Which is why he decides to give it everything he has, and fuck the consequences.

“Yeah, but isn’t there an imbalance, in a way? Like, if you know someone - for instance, if it were me - if you and Vic had sex with me,” Jensen says, and then he stops to bring the bottle to his mouth and finish the last two sips, because his mouth is suddenly dry, “you would be more focused on her than on me. Because she’s your wife, and because you like women. I assume,” he adds, and then he stops again, he stops long enough for Misha to open his mouth, and this, right here, is the beginning of the conversation they’ve never really had, because Misha likes to joke around and quote bizarre theories and myths about giant cocks walking around on two legs (an Inuit legend, or something), but somehow they’ve never got around to this, right here; and since Jensen is feeling particularly evil, and also very close to victory, he forges ahead before Misha can answer.

“And as for me, well - man, Vic is a wonderful woman, no doubt there, but I know I’d watch _you_. I’d be focused on _you_. We do have this ‘bond’, after all,” he laughs, as if they’re just talking about the stupid show. “So it’s you I’d want to touch. It’s you I’d want to _taste_. And, if you’d let me,” he says, and lowers his voice, only just, “it’s you I’d like to fuck. Slowly, or roughly. However you like it.”

Misha is now looking as if he’s been hit over the head. Repeatedly, and with something very, very heavy. Jensen’s mouth goes even drier, beer or no beer. He ignores the fast tattoo his heart is beating against his ribs, and this time when he watches Misha’s face, when his eyes move to Misha’s lips, he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

“I don’t -” Misha forces out, and then, “I mean -”

“You know, those hippy trousers you’re wearing may be organic cotton and all, but they are crap at hiding boners. Just saying.”

“I -”

Misha is still struggling to find something to say, anything at all, and Jensen licks his lips again, grins. And then Vicky’s voice echoes behind them, and they both jump.

“Looks like you owe me a fifty, sweetheart.”

Misha swivels around so quick, his neck will probably hurt for the next couple of weeks.

“ _What?_ ”

“Our bet? Our ‘gay sex is overrated’ bet?”

“Hey, TMI, just there. I don't need to hear the details,” says Jensen, putting the empty beer bottle down on the table and raising his hands, palms out. “Just glad I could help out, Vic. Any chance to have some of that mousse of yours?”

And yes, there is a chance, and thank God, because Vicky’s chocolate mousse is a no milk and no cream and no eggs thing, and Jensen is not big on vegan stuff, but Jesus, this is something else. He enjoys every mouthful of it, and it’s made extra special by the filthy, irritated looks Misha keeps shooting him. After the fourth times it happens, Jensen glances his way, his mouth full of chocolate, and grins at him.

Jensen doesn’t know how much Vicky has heard of their conversation, but apparently she doesn’t want to talk about it (maybe she’s trying to be kind of Misha, who looks all kinds of sour, or, more possibly, she’s waiting for Jensen to go so she can gloat in private) and both men go with that. They end up chatting about West’s obsession with _Where the Wild Things Are_ instead (JJ is only just starting to get into it), and (briefly) about politics, and then, inevitably, about bugs, because it’s very dark now and the things are louder than ever (they all sort of agree that cicadas actually sleep at night, and, anyway, they don’t sound like that at all; and then Misha adds, in a prissy tone, that those are katydids and their chirps can be used to measure the ambient temperature - it looks like he’s trying very hard not to say, _So there_ , which would make no sense at all). 

Jensen stays long enough to help clear the table and be lended a book ( _Vegan Cupcakes Take over the World_ ), and in the end it's almost midnight before he manages to say that, no, really, he couldn't possibly eat or drink anything else, that he really should head home or he'll be a wreck tomorrow.

Vicky smiles and hugs him, and Misha walks him to the door. He seemed about to put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, because this is normally how their evenings together end, both of them a bit tired and comfortable with each other, but tonight his hand hovers in mid-air before coming down on the door’s casing instead.

As they stand on the threshold, Jensen one inch outside and Misha one inch inside, Jensen is about to start with the usual things (empty words, in a way, and a social convention, sure, and yet it is true he had a nice time, and it is true that it was nice of them to have him over, and that they must do it again soon, and -) when Misha looks directly at him and frowns. 

“How did it work, then? Did she ask you to do that?”

_Do what?_ , Jensen is about to ask, but all of a sudden he doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want Misha to feel he was the butt of a joke, because, really, it wasn’t about that. Or not only about that, anyway.

“Not that, specifically. She gave me free rein.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“Man, I’m sorry if I -”

“So, it was just about winning a bet? For someone else? How grand of you.”

Despite the choice of words, Misha doesn’t sound annoyed anymore. There’s something else in his expression now. A challenge, almost. Jensen grins and comes a step closer.

He raises a hand, lazily, to Misha’s cheek, and then allows his thumb to trace his jaw, to follow the curve of his neck. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say I did it for free, no,” he says, staring at Misha until he sees him blushing. “Have you got plans for Friday?”


End file.
